


Heavier than stone

by Hoeratius



Series: One night in Paris [3]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Booker is a sad mess and the resolution is more than a century away, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26745523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoeratius/pseuds/Hoeratius
Summary: Montmartre, Paris, 1895. A series of mysterious deaths leads the Guard to a secret society, which seeks to blur the boundaries between this world and the next. At an undercover mission, Booker is haunted by the ghosts of his past.
Series: One night in Paris [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931623
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	Heavier than stone

‘What’s this?’ Nile turned a sheet of thick, creamy paper over in her hands. One side showed an ink drawing of the Guard in outlandish dress: Nicky sporting a cravat and extremely regrettable moustache; Joe in elaborate robes with a curved sword dangling from his hip; and Andy standing tall and regal, dressed in a Greek gown and leafy headpiece. A disembodied hand rested on Andy’s waist, the rest of the person torn off.

The other side carried an invitation:

> _Yusuf al-Kaysani,_
> 
> _You are cordially invited to a soirée with the Society of the Silver Rose, at 7 Rue Dancourt, September 28._
> 
> _Walk in the Light_.

‘Oh, I remember that.’ Joe grinned as he took the paper from her. ‘Armand drew it. Great night.’

Nile sat down by the fire, resting her chin in her hands, ready for a story. ‘What happened?’

‘A job,’ said Nicky, at the same time that Andy snatched the invitation from Joe and muttered, ‘Nothing.’

***

** SÉBASTIEN  
**

***

Paris, you’ve changed.

As our carriage trailed past tree-lined boulevards and uniform iron balconies, I tried to remember the rickety medieval houses that used to populate the banks of the Seine. Close-built quarters, unexpected squares, calls for liberty and brotherhood: Haussmann had torn it all down and left a dream of order and organisation. Napoleon would have been delighted.

The Eiffel tower reigned over this new Paris. I wondered how long it would take until another war urged the Parisians to melt down that monstrosity into bullets and weapons and everything else they used to like, back when this city still pumped with the frenzy of revolution. I’d put my money on the Germans next time, maybe another year or twenty.

I winced at the thought. It sounded so much like my grandfather, I almost expected him to appear around the next corner, shaking his head at the wasteful decline.

I hadn’t even _liked_ any of the wars when they happened! Like an old man, I was reminiscing for reminiscence’s sake, brushing over my memories with rosy paints that blended the red and brown and scarlet and vermilion until they were not blood but art. A beautiful, artistic, painless representation of suffering.

Shit, I was bad today.

Time to get a grip.

Pulling away from the window, I studied my companions instead. Yusuf and Andromache were dressed for the opera – the stage, not the audience – and it suited them. Yusuf’s robes brought out the colour in his cheeks, and he wore them with style, as ever, while Andromache managed to hide God knows how many knives underneath her dress and still carried herself like a statue of Artemis. Nicholas and I had drawn the short straws in our plain black suits.

‘So what is our cover story again?’ I asked.

‘I’m a sage from the East.’ Yusuf’s eyes twinkled at the absurdity and he slapped Nicholas’ thigh. ‘Nico here is my faithful servant who assists me in my spiritualist activities. You and Andromache have followed me since you heard me speak in Constantinople.’

‘Istanbul,’ I corrected.

‘That’s not even a modern change, _caro_ ,’ said Nicholas, shaking his head.

‘Anyone dripped in ancient wisdom like I am forgets such details.’ Yusuf’s hand lingered on Nicholas’ leg, probably without even noticing it, his thumb trailing over the fabric. ‘I, for one, think this is going to be a great night.’

Nicholas smirked. ‘Finally getting the recognition you deserve.’

‘Quite.’

Andromache glanced out of the window, where the white dome of the Sacré Coeur ushered us closer to our destination. ‘We go in, we establish if these are the kids who’ve been leaving their friends dead in various cemeteries in Paris, what the purpose of it is. Unless we are attacked, we do not strike.’

We all nodded, and unfortunately for me, that brought the end to our conversation. The silence stretched on as we pulled up the Rue Dancourt, until the driver reined in his horses in front of one of the hundreds of identical, large entrances in this part of town. A bronze _7_ caught the sun, flickering its welcome to us.

‘Here we go.’ Andromache had already opened her door before the driver could offer his assistance. Lifting up the hem of her dress, she revealed the sturdy shoes that were awful for a party amongst good society but very helpful for kicking down doors or making a run for it. As we rang the bell, then climbed up the carpeted stairs, Yusuf kept reaching for his scimitar.

‘Everything okay?’ I asked.

‘Whoever designed this clearly never wears a sword,’ he said, with an apologetic grin. ‘It keeps brushing my leg or feeling like it’s about to fall off. And where’s the sheath?’

‘ _Il faut souffrir pour être beau_. It does look better like this, o wise one.’

Nicholas laughed out loud at that, and Yusuf pulled a face that was at odds with the grandeur of his outfit. A few minutes and several tugs on the bell chord later, our wise leader and his entourage entered the salon.

The scent hit me like I’d come home.

I inhaled deeply. The air was thick with smoke, perfume, dusty velvet. It reminded me of Léonard’s wedding, when we’d all gathered in a fancy inn in Nantes after the ceremony and I had acquired enough cigarettes and cigars to ensure no man went without for the duration of the party. Perfume had moved on since then, or perhaps the ladies of Paris were more discerning in their tastes, with their ambergris and musk instead of the rosewater of Léonard’s young wife. What had her name been again? Isabelle.

Of course, now I had a look around, I saw that I would never have been invited to a party like this. Such flickering diamonds and delicately-shaped champagne flutes had not been for the likes of me.

Andromache and I split off from the others. Nicholas faded into the shadows like he was one, Yusuf strode forward, the trap to lure in our host. Already he drew the attention of the nearest guests, and Andromache and I needed to blend in before we were too closely associated with the evening’s star.

I slipped an arm around Andromache’s waist, the way I used to with Francoise when we attended parties together, and heard her chuckle.

‘I thought I was supposed to be a widow tonight,’ she said, her eyes flicking over my face before continuing their exploration and assessment of the room. ‘So that I might use my feminine wiles and all that?’

‘My dear, the only woman more irresistible to a Frenchman than a young widow is an unhappy wife.’

And indeed, already my simple act of possessiveness had piqued the interest of two black-clad men. Not that Andromache needed such help – no Frenchman would try to resist a woman that beautiful – but we didn’t have time for their usual games. They needed to strike soon, and only a husband offered the perpetual threat of a lady being whisked back to the countryside. ‘I’ll disappoint you soon enough, then you can find someone to comfort you with information.’

Even though there were a thousand things I should be surveying, my attention kept being drawn to the bookshelves all along the wall, save for the balcony doors. Row after row of leather-bound tomes stood guard, their golden titles gleaming in the light from the oil lamps. Endless Baudelaire, Poe, the history of France, but darker content as well. _The Occult amongst the Romans. Kabalah and the soul. Satanism. Reflections upon the Book of Revelations_. It suited the general décor, with the black velvet drapes and weird figurines of dancing skeletons that dotted the room.

Andromache dragged me back to the mission. ‘Is that what we’ve come to, Sébastien? Pre-scheduled arguments?’ Her voice brimmed with a delicacy I’d not heard before, tricking even me to think she meant it for a second. Damn, that woman was good. Six thousand years of slipping in and out of identities really did give you an edge.

I reached into my front pocket to avoid her gaze for a bit longer. ‘Just look exasperated and they’ll be all over you in a hot second.’

I took a cigarillo from my new cigarette case – a gift from Nicholas, as was the excellent tobacco he’d added. Placing the end between my lips, I tossed my lighter at Andromache. Her look of intense annoyance was so perfect, she might not even have faked it.

‘No wonder I’m unhappily married,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘Can’t you light your own?’

‘I’m merely helping you get into character.’

Her lips twitched, and she swept the lighter from my fingers. Leaning in closer, the tiny flame like a chastity belt between us, she asked, ‘Any sign of our host?’

‘None.’

‘Right.’

I pulled back, taking a drag from the cigarillo. It tasted like comfort. I only vaguely registered that Andromache said something, but before I could ask her to repeat, the flat of her hand smacked hard against my cheek.

‘Wh –’

‘Why can’t you, for _once_ , let me have fun?’ she hissed, to the badly hidden delight of the two gentlemen who’d admired her earlier. A cloud of smoke slipped through my lips as I watched her stride over to the drinks table, head held high, the bare skin of her neck as much of an invitation as any self-respecting Frenchman would need.

A young hopeful split away from his group of friends, dainty white hands reaching out already as if to comfort her from a distance. See, I knew it. They wouldn’t be able to help themselves.

I took another drag. A few curious guests studied me, the idiot who was about to be cuckolded, but they averted their eyes when I looked back. In a corner of the room, a waiter cleared the glasses of a group of three, all of whom had their gaze fixed on the cards in their hands. My kind of people.

I pulled back the one empty chair, just as the servant returned with a tray of fresh champagne. Even if my arrival did not rouse their attention, the alcohol did, and they took me in with it.

‘Trouble with the Missus?’ asked one. Red hair with a streak of white, slicked back so he resembled a fox, a variety of thick silver rings clicking against the crystal flute.

‘More trouble than they’re worth,’ said the second with a grin. Rather small and round, with a pasty face that had more hair growing from his nostrils than his cheeks, he balanced three glasses between his fingers, giving me one and keeping the other two for himself. ‘Still, she is a fine-looking lady.’

I flashed him a grin. ‘They’re the worst kind of trouble, aren’t they?’

‘But the pain is so sweet,’ said the last one. He held out his hand to me, a gold band revealing his own marital status. Although his hair was still thick and dark, the creases around his mouth made him look older than the smooth skin of his hands suggested. ‘Victor.’

‘Sébastien.’

‘A pleasure. These are Robert –’ The fox nodded in greeting, ‘– and Eustace.’

‘What are you playing?’ I asked.

‘French tarot,’ said Robert. ‘Do you know it?’

‘Naturally.’ I’d been playing it for about three of his lifetimes. He didn’t need to look quite so smug; whatever cheats he thought he had, I had perfected them a long, long time ago. I added a couple of francs to the pot, and we began.

I made sure to lose (but only just) the few rounds, playing well until I let Victor have the last word. My hubris, mixed with his elation and my resignation in laying down yet more money, quickly endeared me to the group, and they began to enlighten me on the dynamics of the party.

‘Oh, it’s all hosted by Luc Dantès, he is brilliant. Spiritually very gifted.’

‘Mélisande is the one who is truly gifted – capital G Gifted – have you spoken to her? She has the Sight. Can see straight through you, past, present, and future.’

‘We kind of go for the occultism, kind of for the parties.’

I listened, and nodded, and ‘Hmm?’d my way through the next rounds. More and more champagne flowed, and so as not to fall out of lockstep with the others, I made sure I kept up. Besides, it would be a shame not to thank Luc Dantès for his hospitality by at least consuming as much of this delicious drink as I could. Their conversation got better with each glass, as they stumbled over themselves to boast about their experiences.

‘I once astrally projected to the moon.’

‘When Mélisande read my palm, she said I’d live to be two hundred and fifty years old.’

‘The ghost in my apartment speaks to me through Ouija. He died during the Revolution.’

‘Bullshit – your house wasn’t built until fifty years later, at the earliest!’

‘Yeah, it’s a shame about Isidore, but Luc will figure it out.’

Finally, I thought, as I heard the name of the young man who was found a fortnight ago. So Yusuf’s contact had found the correct group of death-lovers.

Without moving my eyes away from my cards, I asked, ‘Isidore?’

‘He, um, he died two weeks ago,’ said Robert, exchanging awkward glances with the others. ‘He tried too soon. Which is a bit scary, considering he was so, so good – it makes me wonder if I’ll ever reach the level required…’

‘Required for what?’

Robert didn’t answer. In the silence that followed, he avoided my gaze, until Victor said: ‘If you don’t know yet, we’re not the ones to tell you.’ He cleared his throat, then his face brightened up, and he tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Look, your wife is with Mélisande. What do you reckon she’s asking about?’

I glanced over my shoulder. Andromache had taken a seat at another table, shuffling a deck of actual tarot cards while staring intently at a pale, raccoon-like girl. If Mélisande was as ‘gifted’ as my drinking buddies suggested, Andromache must be getting closer to answers than I was.

I turned back to the game. ‘Probably enquiring about one of her lovers.’

‘That bad, huh?’ said Eustace.

‘Treasure it. Treasure her,’ Victor said, setting his glass down with so much force I feared he’d break it. ‘Before you know it, she might be gone forever.’

 _Don’t I know it_ , I thought, and signalled to the servant to bring us more champagne.

Eustace gave Victor a pat on the back, while Robert and I pretended we hadn’t noticed anything. We played another round, and then I had had enough Veuve Cliquot to warrant a piss. As I turned towards the direction Robert had pointed, my drunkenness revealed itself to me with a flourish and blurry edges. Keeping my head on straight proved about as much as I could focus on as I manoeuvred towards the door through which servants had flitted in and out of the room. On my way, I bumped into one of the many suited men, my hands already raised in apology before I pulled back.

‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ I muttered.

‘No wor –’

He fell silent. I blinked, forcing my eyes to take in the situation and not the long-awaited road towards the lavatory, and almost wet myself there and then.

‘Léonard?’ I whispered, drinking in the familiar features of my youngest. They had changed since our last meeting, filled back in with life and colour instead of the gaunt face of his deathbed. He wore his hair in a modern fashion, but his eyes, Francoise’s beautiful green eyes flecked with amber and hazelnut, they remained unchanged.

‘You must mistake me for someone else,’ he said, cocking his head slightly, eyebrows drawn together. ‘I’m Luc. And you are…?’

‘I’m here with Yusuf al-Kaysani.’ My hand, which seemed as foreign to me as anything else in this room, gestured towards Yusuf, captured in conversation with someone who seemed to be writing as they were talking.

Léonard - Luc? Host Luc? - Léonard opened his mouth in understanding, and I could see the thoughts whirring behind his forehead, his face as much of an open book as my brother Jean’s had been.

‘What did you say your name was?’ Léonard asked.

No, this wasn’t Léonard.

I shook my head, but it did little to sober me up. The stuffy heat of the room didn’t help, pressing against my windpipe like a noose. ‘I need to piss.’ I stumbled past him, falling through the door that led to another corridor, with the clattering of pots and pans on one side and the discreet entrance to the privy on the other. Blissful loneliness engulfed me as I closed the lock, closed my eyes, closed my mind.

Léonard was dead. I had seen his body at the wake. He was dead, and buried, and not like us, and he was not here.

He wasn’t here and he never would be again.

I poured some water into the porcelain bowl and splashed it in my face. As I wiped the cold drops from my eyebrows and rubbed it over the back of my neck, I repeated the unmistakable: ‘Léonard is dead.’ And just to add to it: ‘Paul is dead. Vincent is dead.’

I would never see them again.

God, even if they’d lived to a ripe old age, they would have been dead by now. There was absolutely no way any of them were here. I needed to get a grip.

How much longer was this party going to take?

I remained in the lavatory, waiting for the misery to fade and leave the familiar, comforting numbness, but Léonard’s surprised face kept floating in front of my mind’s eye. How long had it been since I’d seen his beautiful face move?

A banging on the door startled me, and I reached for my belt, where I would have kept my knives had this been a normal situation. Clutching at air, I grabbed the china jug by its ear. Even without water, it was heavy enough to knock someone out if smashed pro –

‘Are you nearly done?’ a voice called from the other side. ‘Hello? Sorry, I really need to…’

I set the weapon back on the wooden cabinet. Clearing my throat, I called back: ‘Just a moment.’

Get it together, Lelivre.

When I opened the door, the young man who’d wanted to approach Andromache greeted me on the other side. Even if she hadn’t been immortal, she must have been twice his age; maybe that was why he’d admitted defeat. Or maybe he’d been so useless that she’d moved on before his puppy love could hold her back.

He narrowed his eyes when he recognised me, but had the bright idea not to say anything.

‘All yours,’ I said with a bow.

When I took my seat at the card table again, I noticed to my surprise that Yusuf had gathered an audience. A good sign; it meant Nicholas must have found something, surely. I turned my head away from him to rejoin the game, but my fellow players had more interest in Yusuf than me.

‘You know him?’ asked Victor.

‘Yu? Yes.’ What was the story again? ‘We met in Constantinople.’

‘Istanbul,’ Robert corrected absentmindedly. ‘Is he…?’

Now they were all staring, I examined the speaker as well, or at least pretended to. I sought for a dark blond head, those green eyes and cocky smile I would recognise anywhere, but Luc was nowhere to be seen.

I glanced at my hands. Even when I clenched them into fists, I couldn’t stop them shaking.

‘Is he what?’ I asked instead.

‘The real deal,’ said Victor. ‘We’d heard that he could speak with the dead.’

What lies had this contact of Yusuf’s spread about him? I’d reckoned it was silly, not that it was impossible, but the three other men around the table did not seem to doubt that one might have such abilities.

Yusuf’s hands painted a world of their own, even without the poetry that he composed on the spot. His words danced through the room, promising wisdom in their whispers: ‘Quynh. An ancient woman, who had travelled through centuries of time and knew the secrets of Man and God.’

I smiled, recognising the techniques of a master liar. ‘He’s real.’

‘ _Mon dieu_ ,’ whispered Victor, growing pale around the nose.

Before I’d caught up with what was happening, they had risen from their seats and joined the audience around Yusuf. I followed behind, even when they sank to their knees. It was more than a little strange, kneeling around Yusuf like a congregation around their preacher as he shared the tales of his travels to the world beyond. I wondered what Nicolas would say if he saw…

Suddenly, a voice by my shoulder piped up. ‘Can you – could you travel there now?’

Yusuf snapped up his head, dark eyes as warm as ever. Only someone who’d seen him in combat would know that the cogs inside his mind were turning like crazy to come up with a show that told these people what they wanted, while milking them for all they were worth.

‘I mean…’ Victor stammered, flustered now everybody’s gaze was on him.

Eustace gave him a little nudge. ‘Go ahead, Victor.’

Yusuf’s eyes darted to me, but there was nothing for me to say. The smallest of shrugs reassured him, and he turned his smile to Victor, inviting him in.

‘My wife,’ Victor croaked. ‘Do you know – is she happy?’

Yusuf blinked, his answer held back a second when he had to swallow. ‘She is at peace.’

Eustace’s fingers dug into Victor’s shoulder, holding him steady, but Victor needed no such support. His face shone with relief, and he nodded along as another, and then another member of the audience asked Yusuf about their loved ones.

His answers were made up on the spot.

They had to be. Yusuf was no more connected to the next world than I. And yet I couldn’t blame the audience for believing him. His impeccable, if old-fashioned, French flowed with the confidence of a prophet’s, as he found the right words for everyone. I watched with envy as listener after listener found reassurance in his promises.

I needed more champagne.

Scanning the room to see if I could find any waiters, ignoring the sweet consolations Yusuf crafted, forcing myself not to remember my own questions, I saw him again.

Luc.

He caught my eye across the crowd, and he _knew_ me. He did, I could have sworn it, the way he covered his mouth in shock, the unblinking gaze of someone who realises. I’d seen it on Léonard’s face endless times: when he finally understood his mathematics, when I’d told him I had to join the army, when he’d accused me of my secret and I hadn’t protested.

I forced my eyes shut and shook my head. When I looked again, Léonard had gone.

In the centre of the crowd, Yusuf pontificated.

He didn’t know anything more. He didn’t, he couldn’t, he –

‘What about my children?’

I hadn’t meant to say that. As Yusuf’s pity rained down on me, I knew I should not have asked, but I couldn’t help myself. I had _seen_ Léonard, he had seen me. Something was going on tonight. Maybe this Order of the Silver Rose did know more than they let on.

Yusuf let out a low sigh, as if the knowledge weighed too heavily on him, and said, ‘They forgive you.’

_Thank you._

This time, Victor was the one supporting, not supported. In his face, I saw reflected the relief that coursed through my veins as well. And yet, he and I were not the same. He would die, sooner rather than later, and his pain would die with him. Perhaps he’d meet another woman and die before her, never being alone again in his life.

‘I need some air,’ I said.

Leaving behind Yusuf’s new admirers, I stumbled for the open balcony door. The fresh air washed over me, more effective at bringing me to the present than the water had been in the lavatory, and I paused just in time not to bump into Andromache. She turned around, her expression cool as stone, taking me in and finding me wanting.

‘Hi darling,’ I said, in an attempt to lighten the mood. Something cracked underneath my foot – the remains of a champagne flute, its contents splattered over the stone floor and the hem of Andromache’s dress. ‘Are you having a nice time?’

‘An absolute rave. Did you discover anything?’

Shit. Of course, I’d failed at that as well. ‘Victor cheats at card?’

‘Anything to do with the human sacrifice?’

I shook my head. What little I’d heard about Isidore’s death did not constitute a discovery. I’d wasted everyone’s time, made a fool of myself in front of Yusuf, and depending on how the rest of the night went, I was too drunk to –

‘Me neither,’ said Andromache softly. She hesitated a moment, toying with the necklace she always wore, the drop-shaped pendant hidden amongst the gaudier jewellery she had chosen for the occasion. Then she reached out and placed her hand over my arm. The warmth comforted me, devoid as it was of judgement.

A group of children – well, young adults – stumbled outside, laughing and singing as they crossed the street. I scanned their faces, but Léonard was not among them.

Of course he wasn’t.

Luc was not among them. Luc, Luc, Luc.

My hand clenched, and Andromache tightened her grip over my arm.

‘Andromache?’ I asked.

‘Yes?’

I mulled the question over in my head. Yusuf wasn’t connected to the next world, he couldn’t be. But Andromache, she had been around for so long. So unimaginably long. She had to know…

‘Do the dead ever leave us?’

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. If any such comfort existed, she, Yusuf, and Nicholas would have given it to me long ago.

Eternity opened its wide, terrifying jaws in front of me.

‘How can it be…’ The words came out without my having a say in it, but the alcohol and the yearning needed an escape. My chest constricted, like it was collapsing in on itself. ‘How can it be that I still carry all this love? Where does it go, where does it belong, if they aren’t – if they aren’t here to receive it anymore? And their love…’

I remembered Léonard, no taller than my hips, running across the street. Vincent, beaming with pride as he told me he’d won at football. Francoise, running a hand through my hair as she told me she was pregnant, and both of us filling up with so much love for a little being that didn’t even exist yet. And then Paul was born, and he grew into my son, and he tried not to cry in front of me when he fell…

‘And their hopes and dreams,’ I whispered, remembering Paul’s little soldier’s cap. ‘And memories and faith, how can it all have been gone for so long already?’

‘Sébastien…’

‘So long.’ My chin wobbled, such a small and pointless gesture of loss. My tears didn’t bring them back, I’d tried that often enough. All I had was this love, building up in my chest, mingling with grief, and it had nowhere to go.

I stared at Andromache, her features blurry through my tears, and then looked down at the dark, Parisian street below again. In the distance, the laughter of her admirer echoed over the abandoned stones.

‘Where have you put it? What happened to your love? How can I have thousands more years to go with all this…’ Grief, pain, sorrow, love, all of it and at the same time, it all came down to: ‘… emptiness?’

She sprouted the usual nonsense. ‘It gets easier.’ Of course. It had been nearly a century. When was it going to get easier? When would any of this…

I shook my head, pushing the anger away. That would do neither of us any good. ‘Every day I get further away from when I last saw them,’ I said, shocked at the fear that made my voice tremble. ‘Every day they slip further and further away from me, and I can’t – I – I forget about them.’

Had Luc been the striking image of Léonard? Perhaps, but he was not the only one. I remembered the woman in Budapest who laughed just like Francoise, her baby with eyes as green as my grandson’s…

I found myself in Andromache’s embrace, burying my head against her clavicle, my body heaving with sobs as all my fears flowed out. ‘I can’t recall how Léonard used to smell or Vincent laughed. I used to have so much love for them and I can’t remember, but the love doesn’t go away. I still see their faces, Andromache. I see them every day but they’re not real and –’

And it would never get better. Nothing would ever get better.

The door opened again, someone came out, and I swallowed my lament. I turned away from the new arrival and Andromache, using the moment’s respite to compose myself. My head ached from the tears, but my heart felt lighter already. Andromache’s fingers remained clutched around my wrist, her responses to the guest short and unwelcoming.

By the time I lifted my head and turned around, the girl was already leaving, and I recognised the auburn hair of Mélisande, the one who apparently had the gift of Sight.

‘What was that?’ I asked, wiping the back of my hand under my nose to get as close to suave and respectable as I was likely to get tonight.

Andromache rolled her eyes, jaw tensed. ‘She thought she could read my future.’

‘That must have been quite a ride. Poor girl.’ If anything made for a more depressing read than my history… but Andromache pursed her lips and didn’t say anything more, so I continued, ‘What did she say? Something about being chosen? Don’t you think…?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

It echoed something Eustace had said, about Isidore. Perhaps this Mélisande had reached the required level to be admitted to the highest of secret spheres. I rolled my shoulders, trying to energise myself back into action, and grabbed the distraction with both hands.

‘I’ll take a look,’ I said.

She didn’t stop me, and that was all the encouragement I could hope for tonight. Besides, something told me Andromache needed some time to herself. Whatever Mélisande had read seemed to have wound her up massively. I squeezed her fingers. ‘If you need me, give me a shout.’

The corners of her mouth turned up in something that resembled a smile of acknowledgement, but she wouldn’t need me. She was too strong for anything like that.

I returned inside. My vision had already lost the blurriness; an unfortunate side effect of our immortality was our bodies’ uncanny ability to get rid of alcohol poisoning as well as any other type of toxicity. Brushing past Yusuf and the round-faced man he’d been talking to at the start of the party, I followed Mélisande’s dainty figure. The porter opened the door for her, and rather than wait for the sake of subtlety, I decided to go all out, and ran to catch up with her.

‘Mélisande?’ I asked.

Her burgundy lips pressed together as she assessed me, but for once, I seemed to make the cut. ‘Monsieur Pechet?’

The porter closed the door behind us, and we were both left standing in the stairwell. The heat of the party disappeared along with the light, and already Mélisande’s arms had broken out in goose bumps.

As had mine, covered under three layers of warm clothing. I stared at Mélisande’s icy eyes, wondering what she could See. ‘How do you know my –’

‘I met your wife,’ she said.

‘O-oh. Right.’

‘Your friend Yusuf al-Kaysani – he is a fraud,’ she said.

It wasn’t a question, and still I felt like she was expecting an answer. I shrugged, uncertain, but after a couple of seconds she waved my bumbling away.

‘I am not a fraud,’ she said. ‘Your wife’s suffering will end. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and it will be here, in Paris. I have Seen it.’

Something stumbled upstairs, a lock slid open, and Luc’s voice called down. ‘Mélisande?’

‘Just a second,’ she called back.

We both waited until the door closed again, and she placed her hand on the side of my face. Her cold palm made me shiver, the caress of her nails over my cheekbone dangerous like a lion’s talon.

‘I have the answer you search for,’ she said, eyebrows drawn together. ‘But it won’t ease your pain.’ Her eyes flicked upstairs, where Luc was waiting for her. I noticed her bracelet, a string of tiny silver bones with a skull as its latch, and shook my head. This girl was too deep in death for someone who had to live forever.

I moved her hand from my face and smiled. ‘Don’t you have someone to see?’

‘I do.’ She nodded, as if to convince herself, and began the ascent to Luc. Halfway down the flight of steps, she paused. ‘And one day, so will you.’

‘In Paris?’ I asked, jokingly.

She smiled. ‘Everywhere. Good night, Sébastien Lelivre.’

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you're wondering what Mélisande read in Andromache's cards, head over to 'Six of Wands'. Alternatively, if it's Yusuf's night as a sage that you'd like to know more about, 'Yusuf the Enlightened, or: that one time people paid him the respect he deserves' tells you his experience. Coming soon (once my coursework is all handed in): Nicolò's no-good, emotionally draining night as the Only One To Do His Job.
> 
> The title comes from 'The Swan' by Baudelaire: 'Paris changes… but in sadness like mine nothing stirs - new buildings, old neighbourhoods turn to allegory, and memories weigh more than stone'.


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